Tiny One
by Earendilion
Summary: Feanor meets someone very special for the first time.


He had never trembled before.

But now… he did not know what he was feeling.

Was it fear?

No. Not fear.

Then what? What to make his hands shake so, the same hands that had forged and created things greater than any other could even have begun to conceive? What to make his heart quaver, half in desire, half in aversion? Perhaps… perhaps it was fear. Fear of what was being placed on his shoulders.

He listened to the sound, standing still as the eloquent stone pillar that supported him, as though he was part of it. The high, wailing noise resonated in his ears, working its way into his chest and settling there, as though speaking to him. He had never heard this sound before, but it was as though it had been calling to him all his life, through the ages coming to settle in his heart – warm, loving, and foreboding. It was a soft, barely audible cry that came from the room before him.

"My lord?"

He regained himself, straightening and coming out of his thoughts as though breaking the surface of deep, cool water. His eyes fell on the midwife, and she looked away respectfully, fearing the legendary flame that leapt and burned in her lord's eyes.

Eyes still downcast, she approached him warily, a tiny bundle in her arms. He did not move, but stared with iced expressions at her burden, unsure of how to feel. So he did not feel, he did not show any of the fear and uncertainty and panic that was rising in his chest, for the will of fire and iron beat them down with unmatched resolve.

"My lord," she repeated in a fearful whisper. "Your heir."

And with that, she placed the bundle in his arms.

Some sort of explosion seemed to go off inside him as he took it. The fear climaxed inside of him, but now it was joined by something more, something that trumped it beyond his understanding.

A powerful feeling it was, something completely foreign to him until very recently. Its labyrinths were still dark, still unlit, still unexplored by his fëa, which had not even known of their existence. Perhaps this was not completely his fault; there were very few who had the ability to open this sentiment inside of him. But now it was open, and those who presently entered his life were free to trigger it, to cause him to wander the sinuous paths again to try and discern the particular emotion he had for them.

This little bundle, this flesh of his flesh, had opened these labyrinths. And as the tiny being inside the blankets stirred, eyes shut tight against the new world into which it had been thrust, he knew that he loved this little one more deeply than he could fathom, than he could understand. This love cause the fire within him to leap and spit and burn brighter and more powerfully than anything ever had before. Hate, desire, anger, joy: none of these had this great an effect on his fëa.

The midwife left them, and his body was once again subject to his emotions. One calloused, burned hand rose, trembling, to touch the tiny one. Fingers, so tempered to bending iron and commanding fire, now brushed the copper-dusted head with a touch light as feathers in the breeze.

He smiled as the little one stirred, young brow furrowed, and his hand moved to cup the tiny head with gentle adoration.

"Hello, Maedhros," he whispered to the darkness. _My son._

The baby turned in the blankets, nestling against his chest. Two eyes, black and bright as his own, opened to meet his. Stern they were, severe beyond their years, and yet they delved into his heart with a burning passion. He smiled, and it seemed to him almost that a ghost of a smile flitted across the tiny one's face as well.

The moment passed, and the baby yawned widely, little mouth stretching in a weary oval. A soft coo escaped the lips, and he could hear the tiny tongue sucking fiercely against the roof of the baby's mouth.

His warm, deep smile broadening, he placed his little finger, nail turned downward and soft part turned up, against the lips. The mouth opened to accept it and began to suck his finger viciously, the little voice humming with pleasure.

Rocking back and forth in gentle rhythm, he entered the room before him, his eyes still locked on the bundle in his arms.

"Nerdanel," Fëanor said in a low, gentle whisper, "I believe he is hungry."


End file.
